The Invention of Exile (15 page)

“
Gracias
, Austin,” she says, her arms wrapped around her bag. They walk close, bumping shoulders once, twice. The feel of her in periphery is warm, curious. It is awkward for him, walking side by side like this. He is not used to it. A gust of wind makes some leaves scatter, rustle along the sidewalk. Fords and Cadillacs are crammed with people. Taxis. On their way to destinations unknown, but they will all be going somewhere for a good time, borne away on the night's promise, still early at that hour, laden with laughter, music, life. At the corner people mingle, enter and leave the small café, which, as they draw close, pulses with music and lights.

“I invite you for a tequila.”

“Now?”

“Yes. A thank you for helping me the other night.”

Austin does not respond, but walks next to her still, wondering if he can allow himself to go. He looks over his shoulder.

“Come. Just right here.” She swings around to face Austin, her teeth flash in a car's headlights, beckoning with her wide, warm smile, her eyes glistening in the moving light as she ushers them both through the door.

It's an open-air café. Small tables sit around the periphery of the courtyard, huddled like worried young women eager to dance. Some are angled or overturned, some are tucked into corners. White lights arc in loose garlands, dipping close to the dancers' heads. The lights click and swirl in the wind. Glass hurricanes shield small flames from the breeze. Austin steps to the edge of the staircase, watching the string of lights swing toward Anarose, she raising her elbow as if to shield herself from a blow, the bulb grazing the inside of her arm. To Austin her whole body seems on delay, she pressing her lips to where the light burned, the soft place where she places her perfume, which he can smell now, an acrid scent, yet familiar. He lifts the lights for her to dip underneath and he feels comic, a nervousness in his smile as if he has forgotten how.

“Lights,” he says, feeling foolish, his cheeks hot, wondering what exactly he is doing here and why. Anarose bows underneath his raised arm and looks back up to him, once, twice.

Out on the floor, couples dance. Some sway, tracing small tight circles. Others hold a distance, the better to practice the slow formal steps of the
danzón
, heads turned away from each other, dignified, proud. Every once in a while, a man thrusts his chin down over his shoulder as if regarding the ground with disdain. His partner in opposition. The tendons in her neck shining. Then, on a beat, they meld and are off again once more.

The crowded place, though not overwhelming, makes Austin nervous. He knows this place. He had come here in his first years at the boardinghouse, to sit and mingle among the people, watching the dancers, drinking. He no longer comes. He hasn't been here in years, he came to feel contempt for the dancing couples, it was no longer a place for him. He looks back to Anarose, who is at the bottom of the staircase, voices behind him in English, the words grind and cut over the music. Her hand flutters to her necklace, twirling the fine, silver chain around her index finger before letting it drop to her chest once more.

The maître d' nods to them and leads them through the clutter of tables, zigzagging. Anarose is looking over her shoulder; she wants to see where he has gone to, though he is only two steps behind. Heads turn, men mostly—a sudden hush, a halt in conversations. Anarose feigns indifference—that, or she is simply oblivious, walking with her easy grace, confident in her beauty and not as if all those eyes were stealing something from her, as Austin feels now, a secret shed, discarded.

“Bueno,”
the maître d' says. He's pulled out two chairs, his hands turned up in offering. Their seats face the dancers, some gracing their table's edge, a woman's bare back taut and unapologetic. Anarose falls to her seat, the maître d' holds the back of the chair, pushing her gently forward. She sets her bag down and the table wobbles. He takes his seat next to her, his satchel on the floor near his feet. He is silent, looking out across the dance floor, to his hands and then to her face. Her eyes are darker in the light, black lines drawn in perfect arcs along the lid, the under eye. There is a momentary trace of sorrow, dissatisfaction in the way she suddenly rests her chin on her palm, now looking over the floor. Just beyond the pulse and lilt of the dancers.

“Amazing dancers, aren't they. I have come here before, just to watch. I love dancing though. Sunday afternoons are good too. Then, they have the rancheros. Do you know the rancheros?”

“Yes.”

“Always mariachi, but the rancheros, such stories,” she says, pausing, and then looks to him. “Tell me, Austin, you are Russian?”

He does not answer, just looks at her—a hard stare. Austin should go home, but he wants to stay.

“Well, you either are or you aren't.”

“I am from Russia, but I'm an applicant for U.S. citizenship.”

“You are Russian then. The shop. It's busy all the time, long lines every time I pass. You have built up a reputation then. How long have you been here in the D.F.?”

“I am waiting to go to the U.S.” The waiter skirts the edge of the dance floor, takes their order of two tequilas and leaves them. Austin can feel her watching him. Her gaze travels to the dancers and back to him.

“Ah, we're all waiting to go to the U.S.” The waiter returns, setting the glasses on the table with an abrupt little slam. Austin takes his first sip.

“Tell me, what is it you have in this satchel of yours?” She smiles and in one movement sweeps down to lift the bag to her lap.

“Please leave that.” He reaches for it. She is laughing, leaning back, holding it close to her chest.

“So heavy. So many notebooks,” she says, pulling away from him, opening the satchel, teasing as she looks inside. “What is all this?”

“Designs.”

“For what?” She takes out a notebook.

“No. Leave it all be.” She is flipping through pages now, diagrams and margin notes.

“What will you do with these? Ah, I see. I know. You will make your big fortune, right? Like an American. Dream big,” she says, her smile large. “Well, you can hope. There is nothing wrong with that.” Her gaze is fixed on him. She turns back to the dancers and then in a softer voice, directed into the middle distance: “And one day you will forget all about old Mexico.” She smiles, setting his bag back down on the floor. She lifts her glass of tequila, clinks his and takes a sip.

There is a pause in the music. It shifts from a slow, meandering ballad to an allegro, the guitarists strumming fast, hands banging the box of the guitar. Austin's hands are on the table, fingers splayed, palms wide as he leans back in his chair, his smashed thumb darker against the white tabletop. Anarose is not looking at his face. He feels her beside him, his leg pressed against hers. She does not move. He shifts away even though he likes the warmth of her limbs.

The music slower. The lilting chords of the
danzón
.

“You know how?” Anarose says, standing up. Others have begun to dance around them.

“A little.” He shrugs and follows. Her hands are tentative in their touch, eyes on his shoulder. Austin squeezes her palm, little pulses. The light strings sway, bleeding streaks before his eyes readjust and each bulb takes shape again, pearled and gleaming. Warmth here in the crook of his arm. How strange the automatic, instant clutch. He'd like to stay here, holding on to her, as if he'd discovered something lucid in the state of their embrace, the way his hands hold her, the solid flesh of his palm against her shoulder and curve of her lower back, and likewise the way her palms hover slightly before pressing to his chest, her fingers now clasped within his own. It is a hold permissible, his palm squeezing hers as if to quell whatever he is feeling brimming up within her—a response of instinct. He feels the dip in the small of her back, guiding her by this subtle ledge. A man cannot live so many years without touch. The body unable to withstand the missing.

They are in sync—light, yet full, bodies and music in concordance. The other women are certain, their dignity often mistaken for haughtiness. A breeze makes skirts flutter. As they guide their partners, men's forearms flex, like little gasping breaths. Beyond the lights it's darkness, the trees lining the courtyard like black shadows. The leaves rustling, branches tapping, lights clicking—all create an alternate current of sound in contrast to the strumming guitar, the singer's vibrato. Near them a couple dances, a command over their limbs as if they've stepped into the music like clothing—the flick of a foot, the bend in a wrist. Austin glosses over him at first. It is only a vague sense of familiarity within this out-of-place context. The gestures. The jaunty way he crosses his legs. The fidget of a hand when talking. Austin keeps dancing. His body calm, his heart though, frantic. He is surprised by his ability to feign composure. He can manage well, he can handle this. It was as if the moment had already happened, as if he knew, had been through this very scenario before, the moment simply existing in a near future he'd finally come to meet.

“Austin, what is it?” Anarose looks over her shoulder. “Do you know someone?”

“Sí.”

“Who?”

“An acquaintance.”

Anarose's arms fall away from him like a shawl. Austin's neck is strained.

“No. Don't stop dancing,” Austin says, and he takes her into his arms again, wondering if she can feel his pulsing, racing mind, if the body gives it away. Jack is standing next to a woman in a doorway. The music ends. Austin's arms go lax. They stand like adversaries. The band begins the next number, all horns and brass. It is loud. Austin grabs her wrist, his face now tense, but trying to stay controlled, inconspicuous lest Jack spot him.

“I need to go,” he says.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“I will join you.”

“No. Stay here, stay right here.” He is harsh, curt, he puts his hand out, a dividing line. She looks at him perplexed, uncertain. “You must stay right here,” he says.

He is only half aware of the bodies moving around him, his own step unsteady through the dancers. The perfume, smoke, briny smell of hard liquor seem to encapsulate them all in a small, fetid cloud. He returns to his table, finds his satchel and then heads for the back entrance, down a dark hallway and out into the evening. He walks straight away, walks as fast as he can without making his hurried pace look too conspicuous.

 • • • 

W
HE
N
HE
TURNS
DOWN
his street, he continues straight past the boardinghouse, walking directly to his shop. He is lifting the grate now, inching it up. He clicks the door open and feels his way to the back room, the lights off. He will stay here and wait until morning. He stands in darkness. He takes a rolled-up canvas in the corner and lays it out on the floor. He removes his jacket and sets it on top of the canvas. Then, the pillow from his chair, curling up into fetal position, the floor firm and cold beneath him.

After twenty minutes or thirty, he hears the rattle of the door, the breaking of a lock and then the chimes. He clamors to stand, his back pressed against the wall. He tries to steady his breathing and then there is silence and only the loud pulse of his heart. He tries to listen for more movement, but the front room is still. He watches for a trace of light and shadow. After ten minutes, his legs cramping, his shoulders ache. When he can stand it no longer he bounds through the curtain. He stops short.

“How did you find me?”

“We put two and two together,” Jack says, leaning against a worktable. Calm, composed, with a satisfied look.

“What do you mean?”

“It makes sense, you see, a man like you, a man such as yourself—good with mechanical things, an engineering mind. Of course you would do repairs. Tell me, Ustin, do you have any associations with Communists down here?”

“No.”

“You're certain of that.”

“Yes.”

“You do know they're all here.”

“Who?”

“The Communists.”

“I am here because Mexico is the closest place to the U.S.”

“Right. Well, you should know that several so-called Americans are here in Mexico City and her surrounding environs. Hollywood types, you see, those avoiding subpoenas by the House Un-American Activities Committee. Heard of it, have you? I was assigned to a few of them before you came along, before we grew suspicious of your activities too.”

“I have no activities.”

“That's what you say, but I'd be careful if I were you.”

“It's the truth.”

“I think contemplating crossing the border can count as activity.”

“Why now?”

“We have our reasons.”

“I've lived here fourteen years and you come now. Why?”

“We know your kind is thinking about infiltrating the U.S. It's our job to keep people like you and your kind out.”

“What is my kind?”

“Anyone who is suspected of subversive activities. That, and there are new developments.”

“What do they have to do with me?” Austin watches Jack cross the floor to sit in the windowsill, torso twisted slightly so that he faces outward. His raised leg swings in and out of the streetlamp light shining through the front window. His ease, his nonchalant demeanor angers Austin, the impudence, thinking he can come here and persecute him with these accusations. It is unconscionable.

“You've been on our radar before, and due to new developments, we've been advised to keep an eye on you. You're a perfect candidate for illegal entry so I'm here to ensure that you won't try something funny, or at least warn you not to do it. Of course, crossing the border is more difficult now than it was years ago, but you have your connections, Sonoran smugglers maybe? And besides, you've got to see it from our perspective. How are we to know what you might do with these inventions of yours?”